September 30, 2004

Out with a Sigh

When Derek Lowe pitches poorly, my feeling is one of pure, unadulterated frustration. Dammit Derek, I think, gritting my teeth, as he fidgets on the mound, you are one useless motherfucker.

When Pedro Martinez pitches poorly, I feel as though I'm watching something tragic on a Shakespearean level. The mighty conqueror brought low. King Lear raving on his dark throne. Lady MacBeth wondering how the dagger betrayed her. Merlin falling into the abyss.

There has been something otherworldly about Pedro from the beginning. Where Curt Schilling pumps his fist and yells like Russel Crowe in a swords-and-sandals epic, clearly the avenger but still, as yet, clearly human, Pedro quietly points to the sky, kissing his right hand before offering it up. He has always seemed at least in communication with, if not drawing his power from, the unseen.

It has seemed, as well, that the Pedro Martinez that carries midgets through the dugout is also carrying that Great Pedro Martinez, that Hall of Fame Pedro Martinez, wearing him like clothes out on the mound, shedding him again when he needs to lead a (halfway) normal life.

So when he loads the bases in the fourth inning, it seems as though Pedro goes double for a moment, and the transparent apparition of that Vintage Pedro has torn himself away, and left the mound, leaving that everyday Pedro out there to face the music, the Wizard of Oz exposed behind the curtain.

And then, for some reason, just for a brief flash, it's back. He bears down and strikes out the side, his face flat and coldly terrifying, and when he blows a strike by a helplessly swinging batter it's as if the ball simply disappears halfway to the plate. There it is! you think excitedly. We are finally rid of Impostor Pedro.

In the dugout he's like a headstrong Thoroughbred, tossing his head and avoiding Dave Wallace's attempts to catch his eye. Wallace talks rapidly, and Pedro's eyes dart first left, then right; he turns his head and Wallace lays both hands on his shoulders, a last-ditch effort to settle him, and I know that in past years the idea of a mortal laying hands on Pedro Martinez may have elicited gasps from the rest of the bench and fans alike.

Finally, with Wallace refusing to return to respectable distance, Pedro trains that icy gaze on him, and you can read his lips: I am not coming out in the fourth.

Byung-Hyun Kim is warming apologetically off in the distance. When the inning changes again, though, Pedro is emerging from the dugout, putting on his red glove.

There it is, you think again. That fiercely proud, competitor's spirit. The Great Pedro Martinez has taken over, defying his coach, defying his own performance in the early innings, and he's about to blow away batters like the Pedro of Old.

Check that. He's about to give up two more runs before finally being lifted in favor of Mike Myers.

What has happened?

Pedro's face as Devil Rays round the bases is blank, his expression distant and sullen. Whenever another disaster occurs--a 1-2 count that turns into a single or a double off the wall instead of an emphatic strikeout as has been the custom--the camera coasts in quickly for a tight closeup of his face, showing his upturned eyes or slow, perturbed licks of his lips as if they were some signal that would explain the situation.

The relative simplicity of the game of baseball is its most cutting weapon. It's easy to explain what happened last night--the Tampa Bay Devil Rays scored more runs than the Red Sox. Pedro Martinez gave up more runs than the other guy. That's that.

But of course that isn't enough. Pedro has lost four games in a row for the first time ever in seven years with the Red Sox. Where before a 1-2 count meant certain death for whoever dared enter the batters' box against him, today it might mean nothing.

There's a kind of aching absence here--but of what? Some breath of magic that used to inhabit the right arm of Pedro Jaime Martinez of Manoguayabo, Dominican Republic? The divine intervention that made his 1999 season possible? Has the god, or ghost, that made him now turned away from him? And why?

What's terrifying is that Pedro himself has been devastatingly candid about his state of being. "Call the Yankees my daddies" are five words that will certainly live in infamy. But if you've been listening, he's been saying things all along that grow steadily more difficult to hear.

Last night, framed by a forest of microphones and tape recorders, a light-blue T-shirt stretched over his small but chiseled shoulders, Pedro--the Pedro who has often spoken with so much guile and ruthless wit, the Pedro that has made me remark on more than one occasion, but not without affection, "What a bitch!"--said, and I quote, "I could actually pitch fifth or not at all in the playoffs if I continue to pitch like the way I am."

Gulping, a reporter tried to switch the subject by asking him about whether or not he was bearing down more in the fourth inning to get the side with the bases loaded. "I should have been bearing down a little earlier," Pedro chortled, swiping one hand across his eyes like a child sheepish about forgetting his homework.

What has happened?

While trading Nomar did not rob the Red Sox of their soul, whatever has abandoned Pedro Martinez threatens to. It's abandoned us, too.

Out with a Sigh

When Derek Lowe pitches poorly, my feeling is one of pure, unadulterated frustration. Dammit Derek, I think, gritting my teeth, as he fidgets on the mound, you are one useless motherfucker.

When Pedro Martinez pitches poorly, I feel as though I'm watching something tragic on a Shakespearean level. The mighty conqueror brought low. King Lear raving on his dark throne. Lady MacBeth wondering how the dagger betrayed her. Merlin falling into the abyss.

There has been something otherworldly about Pedro from the beginning. Where Curt Schilling pumps his fist and yells like Russel Crowe in a swords-and-sandals epic, clearly the avenger but still, as yet, clearly human, Pedro quietly points to the sky, kissing his right hand before offering it up. He has always seemed at least in communication with, if not drawing his power from, the unseen.

It has seemed, as well, that the Pedro Martinez that carries midgets through the dugout is also carrying that Great Pedro Martinez, that Hall of Fame Pedro Martinez, wearing him like clothes out on the mound, shedding him again when he needs to lead a (halfway) normal life.

So when he loads the bases in the fourth inning, it seems as though Pedro goes double for a moment, and the transparent apparition of that Vintage Pedro has torn himself away, and left the mound, leaving that everyday Pedro out there to face the music, the Wizard of Oz exposed behind the curtain.

And then, for some reason, just for a brief flash, it's back. He bears down and strikes out the side, his face flat and coldly terrifying, and when he blows a strike by a helplessly swinging batter it's as if the ball simply disappears halfway to the plate. There it is! you think excitedly. We are finally rid of Impostor Pedro.

In the dugout he's like a headstrong Thoroughbred, tossing his head and avoiding Dave Wallace's attempts to catch his eye. Wallace talks rapidly, and Pedro's eyes dart first left, then right; he turns his head and Wallace lays both hands on his shoulders, a last-ditch effort to settle him, and I know that in past years the idea of a mortal laying hands on Pedro Martinez may have elicited gasps from the rest of the bench and fans alike.

Finally, with Wallace refusing to return to respectable distance, Pedro trains that icy gaze on him, and you can read his lips: I am not coming out in the fourth.

Byung-Hyun Kim is warming apologetically off in the distance. When the inning changes again, though, Pedro is emerging from the dugout, putting on his red glove.

There it is, you think again. That fiercely proud, competitor's spirit. The Great Pedro Martinez has taken over, defying his coach, defying his own performance in the early innings, and he's about to blow away batters like the Pedro of Old.

Check that. He's about to give up two more runs before finally being lifted in favor of Mike Myers.

What has happened?

Pedro's face as Devil Rays round the bases is blank, his expression distant and sullen. Whenever another disaster occurs--a 1-2 count that turns into a single or a double off the wall instead of an emphatic strikeout as has been the custom--the camera coasts in quickly for a tight closeup of his face, showing his upturned eyes or slow, perturbed licks of his lips as if they were some signal that would explain the situation.

The relative simplicity of the game of baseball is its most cutting weapon. It's easy to explain what happened last night--the Tampa Bay Devil Rays scored more runs than the Red Sox. Pedro Martinez gave up more runs than the other guy. That's that.

But of course that isn't enough. Pedro has lost four games in a row for the first time ever in seven years with the Red Sox. Where before a 1-2 count meant certain death for whoever dared enter the batters' box against him, today it might mean nothing.

There's a kind of aching absence here--but of what? Some breath of magic that used to inhabit the right arm of Pedro Jaime Martinez of Manoguayabo, Dominican Republic? The divine intervention that made his 1999 season possible? Has the god, or ghost, that made him now turned away from him? And why?

What's terrifying is that Pedro himself has been devastatingly candid about his state of being. "Call the Yankees my daddies" are five words that will certainly live in infamy. But if you've been listening, he's been saying things all along that grow steadily more difficult to hear.

Last night, framed by a forest of microphones and tape recorders, a light-blue T-shirt stretched over his small but chiseled shoulders, Pedro--the Pedro who has often spoken with so much guile and ruthless wit, the Pedro that has made me remark on more than one occasion, but not without affection, "What a bitch!"--said, and I quote, "I could actually pitch fifth or not at all in the playoffs if I continue to pitch like the way I am."

Gulping, a reporter tried to switch the subject by asking him about whether or not he was bearing down more in the fourth inning to get the side with the bases loaded. "I should have been bearing down a little earlier," Pedro chortled, swiping one hand across his eyes like a child sheepish about forgetting his homework.

What has happened?

While trading Nomar did not rob the Red Sox of their soul, whatever has abandoned Pedro Martinez threatens to. It's abandoned us, too.

September 29, 2004

I must say I like Houston -- I've liked them since they were inaugurated a few years back. They are a fun team to watch because of their young quarterback David Carr, great runningback Domanick Davis and their stud wide reciever Andre Johnson. Not to mention they have a pretty dynamite defense also.

It was a battle of the winless teams and Houston came out on top. As a fan, I like that Houston won. In my fantasy world where I bet on the teams, I'm not too happy.

One week, Baltimore looks terrible and can't beat the team that they dominated for the past years. The next week, they look like gods. Where is the truth in this team?

I'm not sure but I have a solution: don't bet on games with them in it.

Result: -100

Cleveland - 10 @ New York Giants - 27Another dominate performance by the New York Giants who, I believe, got lucky last week against Washington and this week were suppose to win.

Everyone is saying how "Kurt Warner is back." I am not sold on this guy yet, however. He was terrific in St. Louis when he had weapons and now all he has is Amani Toomer. If he can succeed in NY then I'll give him some credit. But even a guy like Marc Bulger, who was guaranteed to be a lifetime backup, is succeeding with that St. Louis offense.

Giants will finish 8-8 with Warner losing his starting job at some point during the season.

Result: +150

Pittsburgh - 13 @ Miami - 3The rookie that I think will be better than both Eli Manning and Philip Rivers, proved to be ready for the NFL. Ben Roethlisberger didn't have a jaw-dropping game but it was good enough to grab people's attention and earn himself the victory.

"Baseball shouldn't mean this much."

I'm just not sure that I'm ready to go through this again.

Nobody is. And that's the rub. It's the best Red Sox team of my lifetime, a well-rounded machine with quality pitchers and big bats, a good defensive squad with a deep bench, a likable group of guys who care about one another. They deserve the benefit of the doubt, a clean slate with a fan base that won't panic every time something goes wrong. It's just that we can't help it. Last October nearly broke us. You can only heal so much.

[...]

Maybe enough time hasn't passed yet. I still remember everything about last October, those twelve playoff games unfolding like rounds in a classic boxing match, so many twists and turns that even Harold Lederman couldn't have scored it. I still remember the minutes and hours after that fateful Game 7 in the Bronx, when I called Dad just to make sure he was still breathing. I still remember the following afternoon, when everything hit me at once -- the residual emotions of the past three weeks swelling up like a killer wave, knocking me right on my back -- and I actually had to leave work early. It was too much. Baseball shouldn't mean this much.

A few months passed. I thought I was okay. Last Friday brought everything back. This isn't about a curse, it's about baggage, the way an accumulation of experiences alters your innate reactions. Like every Red Sox fan, I have baggage. Tons of it. Now we're heading into October with another dicey manager. My guard is up. I can't help it. At the same time, I'm going to spend my entire afternoon monitoring that Yankees doubleheader against Minnesota today. Because you never know.

Everything has changed. Nothing has changed. I don't want to go through this again. I can't live without it. I'm not sure I can handle it. I couldn't imagine any other way.

"Baseball shouldn't mean this much."

I'm just not sure that I'm ready to go through this again.

Nobody is. And that's the rub. It's the best Red Sox team of my lifetime, a well-rounded machine with quality pitchers and big bats, a good defensive squad with a deep bench, a likable group of guys who care about one another. They deserve the benefit of the doubt, a clean slate with a fan base that won't panic every time something goes wrong. It's just that we can't help it. Last October nearly broke us. You can only heal so much.

[...]

Maybe enough time hasn't passed yet. I still remember everything about last October, those twelve playoff games unfolding like rounds in a classic boxing match, so many twists and turns that even Harold Lederman couldn't have scored it. I still remember the minutes and hours after that fateful Game 7 in the Bronx, when I called Dad just to make sure he was still breathing. I still remember the following afternoon, when everything hit me at once -- the residual emotions of the past three weeks swelling up like a killer wave, knocking me right on my back -- and I actually had to leave work early. It was too much. Baseball shouldn't mean this much.

A few months passed. I thought I was okay. Last Friday brought everything back. This isn't about a curse, it's about baggage, the way an accumulation of experiences alters your innate reactions. Like every Red Sox fan, I have baggage. Tons of it. Now we're heading into October with another dicey manager. My guard is up. I can't help it. At the same time, I'm going to spend my entire afternoon monitoring that Yankees doubleheader against Minnesota today. Because you never know.

Everything has changed. Nothing has changed. I don't want to go through this again. I can't live without it. I'm not sure I can handle it. I couldn't imagine any other way.

Foulking Pain in the Ace

The Passion of the Derek continues...

If I was a big SABR expert like Jay Jaffe, I could write a huge three-part entry here about how and why I feel that Derek Lowe sucks this season. But I'm not, and I can't, so I'll just point to last night as further evidence that Derek may not belong in the starting rotation for the playoffs.

Argument was raging yesterday on the Big O Show about this. Granted, talk radio should always be taken with a generous sprinkling of salt, but a good point was made that a guy's last twelve innings shouldn't determine his overall performance, especially given that the Sox have a five-man rotation where each pitcher has contributed more than 150 innings for the first time since 1929.

But part of the difficulty--and the allure--of sports is that the most recent or current performance is what matters. You could say that over the last two years, Derek has pitched beautifully, including 30 wins, a no-hitter, and a stellar playoff performance against Oakland (the infamous "bite my tweeter gesture" notwithstanding). Three bad starts should be weighed against it.

But a no-hitter (which, by the way, came against the Devil Rays) two years ago didn't win the game last night. Last year's clutch performance in the division series won't win a game in this year's division series. It doesn't take a stats geek to figure that out.

If we're really serious about winning this thing, our rotation should consist of our strongest pitchers, period, regardless of their standings in the past. If we were to be truly honest about who our strongest pitchers are, right now, as we head into the playoffs, not two years ago or last year or last month, our rotation looks like this: 1) Curt Schilling 2) Pedro Martinez 3) Bronson Arroyo 4) Pray for Rain.

The controversy lately seems to have centered around the third position, which I think is filled quite nicely already by Bronson Arroyo. If this organization is in any way committed to truly pulling out all the stops and winning in the post-season, Bronson Arroyo will be the third man.

But that fourth spot is truly troubling. In the last three starts, at least, neither Lowe or Wakefield has looked particularly sharp--though we have won the last two games in which each has started. And here we get to the trickiest part of all--not the potential for stepping on egos in doling out starting spots but the strange circumstance that has come about in all this, which seems to be the portrayal of the bullpen role as punishment for whatever starter is relegated there.

For some (cough*Derek*), it may be taken that way, but from my point of view, occupying a role in the bullpen as we head into the playoffs, where pitching--not just starting pitching--is king, is not a demotion. A long reliever, particularly on a team like ours where injuries and general ineffectiveness have left the setup spot a weakness of our staff, is of the utmost importance in a playoff situation.

So it's not just as simple as, Derek sucks, let's throw him in the bullpen and forget about him. Honestly, I don't think Derek deserves to be there, either. In essence, whoever goes into the bullpen should be your fourth-ranked starter, someone who can bail the weakest guy out if he needs long relief.

So here's what I'd do: 1) Curt Schilling 2) Pedro Martinez 3) Bronson Arroyo 4) Derek Lowe, and put Wake in the bullpen, because a) Wake has been slightly stronger of late, and b) he's not going to be "psychologically damaged" by being "punished" with a bullpen spot. It sucks utterly to feel like we have to coddle Derek to get any kind of performance out of him, but my personal judgements about Lowe's personality aren't going to win any games, either. And that's what's important here. Winning.

Like anyone else in Anticipation Nation (tm), I'm nervous going into the playoffs. But it's not because I'm afraid to lose; I'm afraid to lose in a certain way. If a truly talented opposing team soundly beats us in a cleanly played game or series, that I can find a way to live with. But if decisions are made for political, personal or historical-precedent reasons and not for the main purpose of winning cleanly played games, it will be difficult to deal with for me, indeed.

"The way we've always done things" hasn't been working for almost as long as we've been doing things. The Red Sox need to prove this year that they are different, that they are bigger than their ghosts, that they are bigger than their individual bellyaches, that they are bigger than their tradition.

Meanwhile, this week marks the last occasions in which we will have the benefit of hearing a game called by Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy on NESN, as national carpetbaggers will sweep in and take over for the playoffs. So I'd like to offer this commemorative quote from Remy during last night's game that I think should be preserved for posterity:

Last night after they won, I went back to my hotel and had a little celebration of my own. I put on my boots, got on the mechanical bull, and had the room service come and spray me with champagne.

Don's reply? "Now there's an image."

You just don't get that from Tim McCarver.

Meanwhile, if you're lucky enough to get radio reception, or an audio feed through mlb.com, listen to Joe and Jerry on WEEI. They may sound like they're holding their noses through the entire broadcast, it may be unclear which of them is talking when, and they lack the pot-addled type of humor Jerry and Don bring to the press booth, but they often remind me of the two old men who sit in the balcony box on The Muppet Show. Here are two of their key exchanges last night:

Joe or Jerry: Derek Lowe, who has struggled of late, is still 2-1 against the Devil Rays this season, and 9-3 lifetime, which includes a no-hitter.
Jerry or Joe: They were showing that no-hitter today on ESPN Classic.
Joe or Jerry: Oh, really?
Jerry or Joe: Yep, and--
(The D-Rays' lead-off hitter sends a single into center field)
Joe or Jerry: Well, I hope you remember that game fondly, because it obviously won't be repeated here tonight.

And:

(A line drive is hit directly at Derek, but gets past him for a base hit. Joe / Jerry discuss his luck in not getting hit by the ball.)
Joe or Jerry: That ball looked like it was for sure going to hit him.
Jerry or Joe: It did.
Joe or Jerry: It looks like, on the replay, like it went right through his legs.
Jerry or Joe: Yep...he was turned around, I don't think he realized where the ball was, and it went right through the wickets into center field.
Joe or Jerry: It is very fortunate in this instance that Derek Lowe is about 6' 6".
(A pause)
Jerry or Joe: Yes. It is very fortunate.

Come to think of it, Derek is pretty tall, isn't he? I had been wondering why--in his away uniform especially, not sure why that is--he had begun to resemble that thing in The Nightmare Before Christmas.

Foulking Pain in the Ace

The Passion of the Derek continues...

If I was a big SABR expert like Jay Jaffe, I could write a huge three-part entry here about how and why I feel that Derek Lowe sucks this season. But I'm not, and I can't, so I'll just point to last night as further evidence that Derek may not belong in the starting rotation for the playoffs.

Argument was raging yesterday on the Big O Show about this. Granted, talk radio should always be taken with a generous sprinkling of salt, but a good point was made that a guy's last twelve innings shouldn't determine his overall performance, especially given that the Sox have a five-man rotation where each pitcher has contributed more than 150 innings for the first time since 1929.

But part of the difficulty--and the allure--of sports is that the most recent or current performance is what matters. You could say that over the last two years, Derek has pitched beautifully, including 30 wins, a no-hitter, and a stellar playoff performance against Oakland (the infamous "bite my tweeter gesture" notwithstanding). Three bad starts should be weighed against it.

But a no-hitter (which, by the way, came against the Devil Rays) two years ago didn't win the game last night. Last year's clutch performance in the division series won't win a game in this year's division series. It doesn't take a stats geek to figure that out.

If we're really serious about winning this thing, our rotation should consist of our strongest pitchers, period, regardless of their standings in the past. If we were to be truly honest about who our strongest pitchers are, right now, as we head into the playoffs, not two years ago or last year or last month, our rotation looks like this: 1) Curt Schilling 2) Pedro Martinez 3) Bronson Arroyo 4) Pray for Rain.

The controversy lately seems to have centered around the third position, which I think is filled quite nicely already by Bronson Arroyo. If this organization is in any way committed to truly pulling out all the stops and winning in the post-season, Bronson Arroyo will be the third man.

But that fourth spot is truly troubling. In the last three starts, at least, neither Lowe or Wakefield has looked particularly sharp--though we have won the last two games in which each has started. And here we get to the trickiest part of all--not the potential for stepping on egos in doling out starting spots but the strange circumstance that has come about in all this, which seems to be the portrayal of the bullpen role as punishment for whatever starter is relegated there.

For some (cough*Derek*), it may be taken that way, but from my point of view, occupying a role in the bullpen as we head into the playoffs, where pitching--not just starting pitching--is king, is not a demotion. A long reliever, particularly on a team like ours where injuries and general ineffectiveness have left the setup spot a weakness of our staff, is of the utmost importance in a playoff situation.

So it's not just as simple as, Derek sucks, let's throw him in the bullpen and forget about him. Honestly, I don't think Derek deserves to be there, either. In essence, whoever goes into the bullpen should be your fourth-ranked starter, someone who can bail the weakest guy out if he needs long relief.

So here's what I'd do: 1) Curt Schilling 2) Pedro Martinez 3) Bronson Arroyo 4) Derek Lowe, and put Wake in the bullpen, because a) Wake has been slightly stronger of late, and b) he's not going to be "psychologically damaged" by being "punished" with a bullpen spot. It sucks utterly to feel like we have to coddle Derek to get any kind of performance out of him, but my personal judgements about Lowe's personality aren't going to win any games, either. And that's what's important here. Winning.

Like anyone else in Anticipation Nation (tm), I'm nervous going into the playoffs. But it's not because I'm afraid to lose; I'm afraid to lose in a certain way. If a truly talented opposing team soundly beats us in a cleanly played game or series, that I can find a way to live with. But if decisions are made for political, personal or historical-precedent reasons and not for the main purpose of winning cleanly played games, it will be difficult to deal with for me, indeed.

"The way we've always done things" hasn't been working for almost as long as we've been doing things. The Red Sox need to prove this year that they are different, that they are bigger than their ghosts, that they are bigger than their individual bellyaches, that they are bigger than their tradition.

Meanwhile, this week marks the last occasions in which we will have the benefit of hearing a game called by Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy on NESN, as national carpetbaggers will sweep in and take over for the playoffs. So I'd like to offer this commemorative quote from Remy during last night's game that I think should be preserved for posterity:

Last night after they won, I went back to my hotel and had a little celebration of my own. I put on my boots, got on the mechanical bull, and had the room service come and spray me with champagne.

Don's reply? "Now there's an image."

You just don't get that from Tim McCarver.

Meanwhile, if you're lucky enough to get radio reception, or an audio feed through mlb.com, listen to Joe and Jerry on WEEI. They may sound like they're holding their noses through the entire broadcast, it may be unclear which of them is talking when, and they lack the pot-addled type of humor Jerry and Don bring to the press booth, but they often remind me of the two old men who sit in the balcony box on The Muppet Show. Here are two of their key exchanges last night:

Joe or Jerry: Derek Lowe, who has struggled of late, is still 2-1 against the Devil Rays this season, and 9-3 lifetime, which includes a no-hitter.
Jerry or Joe: They were showing that no-hitter today on ESPN Classic.
Joe or Jerry: Oh, really?
Jerry or Joe: Yep, and--
(The D-Rays' lead-off hitter sends a single into center field)
Joe or Jerry: Well, I hope you remember that game fondly, because it obviously won't be repeated here tonight.

And:

(A line drive is hit directly at Derek, but gets past him for a base hit. Joe / Jerry discuss his luck in not getting hit by the ball.)
Joe or Jerry: That ball looked like it was for sure going to hit him.
Jerry or Joe: It did.
Joe or Jerry: It looks like, on the replay, like it went right through his legs.
Jerry or Joe: Yep...he was turned around, I don't think he realized where the ball was, and it went right through the wickets into center field.
Joe or Jerry: It is very fortunate in this instance that Derek Lowe is about 6' 6".
(A pause)
Jerry or Joe: Yes. It is very fortunate.

Come to think of it, Derek is pretty tall, isn't he? I had been wondering why--in his away uniform especially, not sure why that is--he had begun to resemble that thing in The Nightmare Before Christmas.

September 28, 2004

The Wackiest Bunch of Barnstormers

"Kazmir ejected while pitching a no-hitter? His hapless replacement immediately shelled for two nodoubter home runs to give the Sox a postseason berth? This team cursed? You have to be kidding."--commenter James

The wackiest bunch of barnstormers in 21st century baseball, the renegade Red Sox last night played their way into the postseason promised land amid the adulation of a traveling jamboree of fans, none more striking than a flock of bearded, white-robed disciples. --Globe

This morning a soft rain is hushing over Eastern Massachusetts, the remnants of Hurricane Jeanne. The Red Sox dodged the raindrops just in time.

Rain is my favorite weather. It makes me contemplative, suddenly aware of walls around me, a roof over my head; somehow, rain outside the window makes me feel more snug and secure where I am.

Today I am thinking of those twenty-five men with so much love. I'm thinking of Pedro and his little friend; Johnny Damon saying "um" every fifth word, Billy slowly chewing his cud by the baseline; how Curt completely subsumed Pedro in a bear hug yesterday and how ridiculous it looked; David and Manny smiling and pointing to each other; and especially Orlando Cabrera simply pointing to the sky.

Orlando Cabrera has never--I repeat, never--been on a post-season qualifier. If it weren't for the hand of fate plucking him up out of Montreal mid-season, he might never have been, either.

Seriously. Think about it. If the Red Sox had not traded away Nomar Garciaparra--and really, what were those odds?--Orlando Cabrera might never have seen October baseball. Not even once.

How do you even keep playing in those circumstances?

No wonder Cabrera's been grinning like an idiot, not to mention gunning down runners left and right in the infield like a man possessed--this, this right now, no World Series, not even a single pitch thrown in a post-season showdown, just this feeling of qualifying, of being on a worthy and winning team, must be a miracle for him.

And what about Bronson? Mr. Cornrowyo has been a solid starter for a high-profile team in his first year away from a bullpen of some sort since some disastrous outings in Pittsburgh. I wish I could be inside his li'l braided skull for even a second to know what that feeling is like.

Or Kevin Youkilis. Screw being featured (as is endlessly brought up) in Moneyball. Ever since his home run to announce himself in Toronto wayyyy back in the misty days of June, Youkilis has been on the bench, off the bench, on the bench, off the bench, on the bench, off the bench, hurt, on the bench, off the bench, on the bench. Youkilis has been on the express shuttle back and forth from Pawtucket probably more times than you or I would like to imagine. And yet just to be around this team, to be a part of this clubhouse, just to get a single at-bat every once in a while...

Think of the way these guys have battled back from injury, played through pain, gritted their teeth through grief and frustration and loneliness perhaps not worse, but quite unlike anything you or I will ever experience, just for the privilege of walking out onto the Fenway grass and playing ball and letting us live vicariously.

This team cursed? Not on your life. They've sweated and persevered and earned this season, righting what seemed a doomed ship time after time.

The Wackiest Bunch of Barnstormers

"Kazmir ejected while pitching a no-hitter? His hapless replacement immediately shelled for two nodoubter home runs to give the Sox a postseason berth? This team cursed? You have to be kidding."--commenter James

The wackiest bunch of barnstormers in 21st century baseball, the renegade Red Sox last night played their way into the postseason promised land amid the adulation of a traveling jamboree of fans, none more striking than a flock of bearded, white-robed disciples. --Globe

This morning a soft rain is hushing over Eastern Massachusetts, the remnants of Hurricane Jeanne. The Red Sox dodged the raindrops just in time.

Rain is my favorite weather. It makes me contemplative, suddenly aware of walls around me, a roof over my head; somehow, rain outside the window makes me feel more snug and secure where I am.

Today I am thinking of those twenty-five men with so much love. I'm thinking of Pedro and his little friend; Johnny Damon saying "um" every fifth word, Billy slowly chewing his cud by the baseline; how Curt completely subsumed Pedro in a bear hug yesterday and how ridiculous it looked; David and Manny smiling and pointing to each other; and especially Orlando Cabrera simply pointing to the sky.

Orlando Cabrera has never--I repeat, never--been on a post-season qualifier. If it weren't for the hand of fate plucking him up out of Montreal mid-season, he might never have been, either.

Seriously. Think about it. If the Red Sox had not traded away Nomar Garciaparra--and really, what were those odds?--Orlando Cabrera might never have seen October baseball. Not even once.

How do you even keep playing in those circumstances?

No wonder Cabrera's been grinning like an idiot, not to mention gunning down runners left and right in the infield like a man possessed--this, this right now, no World Series, not even a single pitch thrown in a post-season showdown, just this feeling of qualifying, of being on a worthy and winning team, must be a miracle for him.

And what about Bronson? Mr. Cornrowyo has been a solid starter for a high-profile team in his first year away from a bullpen of some sort since some disastrous outings in Pittsburgh. I wish I could be inside his li'l braided skull for even a second to know what that feeling is like.

Or Kevin Youkilis. Screw being featured (as is endlessly brought up) in Moneyball. Ever since his home run to announce himself in Toronto wayyyy back in the misty days of June, Youkilis has been on the bench, off the bench, on the bench, off the bench, on the bench, off the bench, hurt, on the bench, off the bench, on the bench. Youkilis has been on the express shuttle back and forth from Pawtucket probably more times than you or I would like to imagine. And yet just to be around this team, to be a part of this clubhouse, just to get a single at-bat every once in a while...

Think of the way these guys have battled back from injury, played through pain, gritted their teeth through grief and frustration and loneliness perhaps not worse, but quite unlike anything you or I will ever experience, just for the privilege of walking out onto the Fenway grass and playing ball and letting us live vicariously.

This team cursed? Not on your life. They've sweated and persevered and earned this season, righting what seemed a doomed ship time after time.

September 27, 2004

Unfinished Business

Just go forward in all your beliefs, and prove to me that I am not mistaken in mine. --Obi Wan Kenobi

Though it was just the third time in the team's star-crossed history that it had secured back-to-back post-season berths--the last time was in 1998 and 1999, and before that was all the way back in the glory days of 1915 and 1916, when the Sox won back-to-back championships--this year's Wild-Card clinch was met with a celebration that was conspicuous in its relative absence.

Sure, there was champagne matting in Jheri curls and Afros in the clubhouse; there was a for-the-cameras embrace between Curt Schilling and Pedro Martinez; there were the usual whoops and hollers from Kevin Millar, but there was no champagne doled out to fans; no T-shirts and caps donned over grins; no miced declarations of love between players and cheering crowds; no promises to "Cowboy Up".

In a way, that's a little sad. Back-to-back postseasons in a grueling game are not to be treated casually, especially given our nefarious luck. I've often been heard to curse the Yankees' sense of "professionalism" that often looks more like smug boredom. Let's not become them.

And yet it's nice that our team isn't stopping to celebrate this milestone, given that there's still a mathematical possibility of making a run for the division and given the hardships they all know lie ahead. It's a comfort in the post-season daydreaming that the Sox aren't going to pause too long over just getting their foot in the door--and that maybe this will be the year it doesn't slam shut.

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